Widow spider
lazing on your Ida down.
Don't-point-your finger,
behave like an irksome clown.
For unobtrusive sleep
might knock you
off your perch to the ground.
And spirit you away
until naught-is-ever found,
In those cradle-pinched hours
might you one day weep?
All dewy dismembered
webbed in the deceitful winds keep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem